


Weakness

by SinAndSyntax



Series: Weakness [2]
Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt!Sherlock, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3192596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinAndSyntax/pseuds/SinAndSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Sorry'. Scotland Yard learn something about Sherlock which causes them to reevaluate their opinions of him. Warning: child abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock flounced up the steps of 221B Baker Street and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Flopping down on the couch, he drew his knees up to his chest, and curled into a ball with his face pressed into the faded leather cushions, inhaling the familiar scent. Stupid Sally Donovan. Who did she think she was? He made a vague grumbling noise and curled up tighter. He was sick of everything and everyone. He couldn't bear it. The look in Sally's eyes when she had confronted him earlier today. Pity. How completely and utterly mortifying. He had preferred it when she was calling him names. 

 

And then there was Lestrade. He hadn't said anything, but simply looked at him with those stupid big cow eyes, speaking softly when he addressed him, as though he was delicate and liable to break if treated too harshly. Sherlock had been embarrassed. They were all treating him like a kicked puppy. Even when Sherlock had gotten sick of it and insulted Lestrade to within an inch of his life, he just looked at Sherlock and smiled sadly. Sherlock had scowled and stormed out. Why did they all seem to think things were different now? He'd known them all for years, and none of them had ever had any qualms about telling him where he could stick his magnifying glass if he got too smart with them. Why did they think they had to treat him differently now they knew his secret? He was still the same. Strong as ever. Cold, uncaring, blunt Sherlock Holmes. 

 

But now they thought they had him all figured out. He could practically see them thinking it at the crime scene today. 'So that's why he is the way he is. Poor guy. Guess that explains everything." Suddenly, everyone at the yard thought of him differently. Finally proof that Sherlock Holmes is human after all. Ugh, human. That was the last thing he wanted them thinking. How was he supposed to go back there now? It wouldn't be fun anymore, not with them staring at him and treating him like one of the victims, speaking quietly in his presence and then looking knowingly at each other when he got annoyed. 

 

At least Anderson had been alright. God, there's a sentence he never thought he'd say. But it was true, Anderson was the best of a bad lot. He was tolerable. Instead of going from hostile and hateful to a simpering idiot he had simply ignored Sherlock, not meeting his eyes or responding to anything he said. And that was fine by him. Just fine. Although he had missed the banter a small bit. He'd had a couple of good insults saved up.

 

Sherlock rolled over, and stared at the wall opposite the couch. What now?  
'Boredom, that's what', he told himself bitterly. Of course he could go back, continue taking cases as normal, but it just wasn't the same. It wasn't that he had enjoyed the insults or anything, quite the opposite, but he knew where he stood with them. He knew he was more intelligent, and that was why they hated him. He knew he could always be ready with a scathing reply concerning their intellect, or a scandalous deduction about who they'd been sleeping with, leaving them red faced and frustrated. He had the upper hand. He always won. But now they would look at him, and feel sorry for him. Instead of getting offended they would think to themselves, 'he can't help it, he's damaged'. And Sherlock couldn't stand it.

 

He rose swiftly from the couch and stood for a moment, breathing deeply. 'It doesn't matter now', he told himself. 'It's going to end up like this anyway.' He knew that if he didn't take any more cases the boredom would eat away at him, devouring his reason until he couldn't help himself. He'd rather not wait that long. He was only prolonging the inevitable really. 

 

He walked decisively to his bedroom door before stopping in the doorway, suddenly unsure. After all the work it took the last time? Did he really want to go through that again?  
'No,' he thought, 'I won't have to go through that again, last time I had something to look forward to. Something to work for. That won't be a problem this time around'.

 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them again and ducked down to the floor. He reached under his bed, looking for the little clear plastic package taped to the underside. His hand found it and a slow smile spread across his face. He couldn't wait to not have to think anymore. For once in his life, he was dreadfully tired of thinking.

 

***********

 

D.I Greg Lestrade sat at his messy desk in his cluttered office in Scotland Yard. A cold cup of coffee lay forgotten on top of the case files from the most recent murder. The one Sherlock hadn't solved. Greg knew Sherlock wasn't perfect, of course there had been cases over the years that even he couldn't solve- not many, but still some. But this wasn't a case of can't. It was a case of won't. Never had Greg seen Sherlock refuse to solve a case he was capable of solving, no matter how beneath him he felt it was. And Sherlock had known the answer. He saw it in his eyes, the dawning comprehension, the triumphant smirk. He had turned to Greg, a sentence on his tongue, and faltered. He just stood there for a moment, staring at Greg's face. Greg had looked at Sherlock, imagining the scars that lay under his perfectly fitting dress shirts. Now that he knew they were there, he couldn't help but see them every time he looked at Sherlock. That word, carved into his skin, all there, underneath the pomp and the bravado, and the ridiculously expensive clothes. Images in his head. Sherlock, on the floor, bleeding, shivering, crying. Sherlock, screaming, no escape from the knife, dragging hot fire across his skin, needing someone to help him, anyone. But no one did.

 

Sherlock's face now blurred with all of the other abuse victims he had seen throughout the years in his profession. All traumatised, hurt, vulnerable. Sherlock Holmes, the tall, elegant man. The towering intellect. The strong muscles, the cutting tongue, the devilishly handsome face. Fearless.  
The abused little boy.

 

Sherlock still hadn't said anything, and Greg gave him a small, encouraging smile, his eyes trying to convey the message that it was alright, that Greg was his friend, that he accepted him. But Sherlock's eyes hardened, and suddenly his expression was fierce. "You know what, Lestrade? I think I have better things to do than do your job for you. I'm wasting my time here with this shower of idiots, I don't know why I ever put up with any of you. I sincerely hope that stupidity isn't catching, because in that case you're all incredibly contagious."  
And with that he left without even a spare glance for Anderson, who, for the second time in three weeks, stood gaping in the doorway as Sherlock left in a huff. 

 

That was three days ago, and Greg was becoming worried. Sherlock hadn't answered his phone despite the numerous increasingly pathetic voicemails Greg had left him. He hadn't replied to the texts either. And he always replied. That was Sherlock, always had to have the last word. But not this time. Mrs. Hudson was on holidays with her sister, and she apparently couldn't get through to him either. Greg ran a hand through his hair, then put his head in his hands. What had gone wrong? All he'd done was smile for God's sake. But he never knew with Sherlock. That man's head was an enigma. 

 

He sighed. He'd known Sherlock since the man was a teenager, much less refined and debonair than he was now, but still just as reckless. Just as rude. As stubborn. Greg would never admit it, but he thought of Sherlock almost like a younger brother, if not a son. And it pained him to think something was wrong. He picked up the phone again, and dialled Sherlock's number for the umpteenth time. "Sherlock Holmes", came the unembellished voice message on the other end, Sherlock's smooth baritone easily distinguishable, followed by a long tone. Greg didn't even bother leaving a message this time. He stood from his swivel chair, pulled on his coat, and walked out the office door. If Sherlock wasn't going to have the common decency to answer him, well then he'd just have to pay him a visit, wouldn't he?


	2. Chapter 2

Greg Lestrade knocked on the door of 221 Baker street for the fifth time. He rang the doorbell again, holding it down for longer than was necessary. No answer. Was it possible Sherlock was just out? Where would he go? But no, Greg had a bad feeling about this. He would go in and check, and if Sherlock was out, then no harm done. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, before producing a set of keys. As he slotted it into the lock and turned it with a satisfying click, he silently thanked Mrs. Hudson for her forethought. She had come to Greg, telling him that she was leaving to go on a trip with her sister for a month, and she would feel better if more than one person had a set of keys for 221B. Sherlock was notoriously unreliable. And Greg was the closest person to Sherlock. 'How sad that is,' he thought, 'that I am the person who knows him the best, while simultaneously feeling like I don't know him at all.' Greg only saw Sherlock every two to three weeks at best, and that was hardly sufficient to get to know someone, especially as the meetings were usually in a professional capacity. Not to mention sombre. Sherlock wasn't the kind to go out for pints on a Friday night. And he was aeons away from the scruffy teenager Greg had once known.

 

He pushed the heavy door in with a creak, and shut it behind him, the snap echoing in the narrow hallway. He made his way up the staircase, dust motes visible in the last dying rays of sunlight straining through the foggy window above his head. He paused at the door to 221B and knocked once more, just in case Sherlock somehow hadn't heard him from downstairs. Nothing.  
He opened the door with the second key and was momentarily shocked by the state of the flat. Funny, he kind of expected a person like Sherlock to be a neat-freak. Greg cringed. Freak. That was a poor choice of words.  
"Sherlock?" he called tentatively, before taking a step in the door. He immediately spotted the man in question lying supine on the couch, arm hanging listlessly off the side, blue silk dressing gown lying open, revealing a set of tatty grey pyjamas. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock was just asleep. He was about to leave quietly when he spotted the sheen of sweat on Sherlock's brow. 

 

He took a closer look, and was worried by the practically translucent complexion and the shallow, rattling breaths. He didn't look well at all. Greg reached over and took his pulse. Much too low.  
Sherlock gave a vague mumble and tried to pull his wrist away from Greg, rolling into the back of the couch. Grey gently shook one of his shoulders. "Sherlock? You alright mate?" when Sherlock didn't wake, Greg began to panic slightly and shook him harder. Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes, squinting at Greg. "Lestrade?" he slurred, "what're you doing here?"  
Greg blanched. One look at Sherlock's eyes and he knew. His pupils were tiny pinpricks, lost in a sea of ice blue. He was high.  
"Oh Sherlock, you didn't! How much did you take?" Greg was shouting now. Sherlock only moaned in response, closing his eyes again. "Not enough", he mumbled. Greg exhaled heavily and knuckled his eyes. "I thought we were past this, Sherlock. When did you start again? How long has this been going on?"  
"Hmm", replied Sherlock, now smiling contentedly. Greg sighed again. No use talking to him when he's like this. He probably won't even remember it in the morning. 

 

He backed up to the armchair behind him and collapsed into it, already remembering Sherlock's previous foray into the world of drugs. Sherlock had only known Greg for a few months, but Greg had taken him in all the same. He thought of Sherlock as a friend even then, and he had felt sorry for him. Sherlock maintained that he had no need or want for friends, and Greg knew that he was a solitary man, but he didn't think it was by choice. Everyone needed friends and Sherlock was no exception, the only problem was the skills needed to make them seemed to elude him. And Greg suspected that he had long ago given up on making friends. Pretended that he had none on purpose. That it was his choice. Greg studied Sherlock's sleeping face and thought how young he looked at this moment. Barely any older than the last time. He picked up a shabby blanket from the back of his armchair, draped it over Sherlock's thin frame and went to put the kettle on. He'd have to stay to keep an eye on him. He and Sherlock were going to have a serious conversation in the morning.

 

Sherlock slowly opened his groggy eyes, squinting against the assault of the bright morning sunlight. He scowled, as if the sun had offended him on purpose. He knew it was just the come down from the drugs, but that didn't stop him from being in a bad mood. As he rolled over, stretching and popping his joints- cramping from sleeping in such an awkward position on the couch- he spotted Lestrade sprawled out in the armchair opposite, head back on a cushion and snoring loudly. Sherlock suppressed a groan. Why couldn't people just mind their own business? He stood from the couch and swayed a little, grabbing the armrest for balance. After a moment, the dizziness subsided and he made his way to the kitchen.

 

Greg woke with a gasp as Sherlock slammed a teacup down on the coffee table in front of him, then proceeded to flop back down on the couch and sip at his own tea. He still hadn't looked at Greg. "Sherlock-"  
"Did I give you permission to spend the night here?" Sherlock cut him off.  
"Well, no, but-"  
"How did you even get in? Breaking and entering detective inspector? Little bit hypocritical, don't you think?"  
"Mrs. Hudson gave me a key".  
"Oh." Sherlock looked surprised. Greg was sorry he didn't have time to enjoy that look on Sherlock's face, it wasn't often he got to see it. "You're one to be accusing me of breaking the law! I could have you arrested on possession of class A drugs!"  
"But you won't", Sherlock was smirking, "you need me too much."  
Greg sighed, and leaned back further in his armchair, "That's the thing though, Sherlock, we need you, not some junkie. I thought we were past this. Why did you do it?"  
Sherlock looked completely unperturbed, as though this entire conversation was a waste of his time. "I was bored."  
"Bored? My arse! You were in the middle of a case!"  
"I decided it wasn't worth my time."  
Greg was finding it increasingly hard to keep from slapping Sherlock. "You can't keep doing this Sherlock, you're destroying yourself-"  
"Why do you care?" Sherlock interrupted. Greg was momentarily stunned. Did Sherlock honestly believe Greg wouldn't give a rat's arse if Sherlock were to continue destroying his body like this? Yes, Greg answered his own question, he did believe that. Sherlock thought that no one cared about him. He obviously didn't even care for himself given his self destructive tendencies. Greg wondered if that was a result of the abuse Sherlock had suffered, and he knew he needed to bring that up with Sherlock at some stage. He just wished he knew how to without Sherlock biting his head off.

 

"I care, Sherlock, because I'm your friend. Because I care about what happens to you."  
"Friend?" repeated Sherlock, looking completely and utterly confused. Greg had the sudden urge to cry. "Why?" continued Sherlock.  
"Why what?"  
"Why do you consider me a friend? I have been told many times in no uncertain terms that I am not a likeable person."  
"Sherlock, if this is about self esteem issues-"  
Sherlock scoffed loudly "Hardly."  
"Well, do you think maybe that could be a result of the... uh... of the..." Greg gestured vaguely in the area of Sherlock's chest.  
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to."  
"Oh for God's sake Sherlock, the abuse! I'm not that stupid you know-"  
"I beg to differ."  
Greg ignored the insult and continued as if he had not been interrupted. "What else could it be? All those scars... believe me Sherlock, I've seen a lot of cases like this in my job and I know what this looks like. I just... if you ever want to talk to someone..." Sherlock sat up suddenly.  
"Who do you think you are? My bloody therapist?" he spat. "I don't need help, I'm perfectly fine. And you can get off your high horse, trying to be the good Samaritan, giving up your time to look after poor put-upon Sherlock! You don't know what you're talking about. Not that you ever do." Sherlock plopped back down on the couch, and turned away from Greg in a fit of childishness.  
Greg sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his fists under his chin. "Sherlock," he began, gently, "you know, if you want, you can still press charges-"  
"Get out."  
"Sherlock please, you can't keep using drugs to deal with this, you need help."  
"No. I. Don't!" Sherlock spat viciously. "You're not my family, you have no responsibility over me, so why do you keep trying to butt in? Just leave."  
"Sherlock-"  
"Lestrade, please leave or I am calling the police", Sherlock gave a little chuckle, "ironic, isn't it?"  
Greg heaved a great sigh. "Fine, fine, I'm leaving, but this isn't the end of this, you hear me? Sherlock?" Sherlock grunted in reply. Sighing again, Greg began to make his way back down the stairs. He stopped when he got back out onto the street. Sherlock was right, Greg wasn't family, he couldn't claim any responsibility over him. But he knew someone who could.  
He pulled out his phone, and searched through his contacts. The phone rang three times after dialling before a female voice answered with a simple "hello?"  
"Hi", Greg responded, "this is detective inspector Greg Lestrade, and I'd like to speak to Mycroft Holmes please."


	3. Chapter 3

Sally Donovan knocked tentatively on Greg's office door, and entered after a gruff "Come in!"  
"Sir," she stood awkwardly in the entrance. "Sally, need something?" Greg asked kindly. Sally smoothed down the front of her shirt and cleared her throat. She looked nervous.  
"Well, I was just wondering... I mean... I haven't seen the f- Sherlock around here in ages, and I was wondering if he's alright." Sally silently cursed herself for her slip. It was a habit, she couldn't help referring to Sherlock as 'the Freak', even though she didn't mean it anymore.  
Greg looked surprised, "Really? I was under the impression you didn't care what happened to him."  
Sally cringed, and her face turned a delicate shade of beetroot. "I- I've been feeling somewhat guilty, sir." she whispered. "As well you should," replied Greg, although he didn't blame Sally entirely, Anderson was just as much to blame for the ridicule.   
"Sherlock... isn't great at the moment" Greg began, looking at his watch, "in fact, I'm going to be late for a meeting with his brother." He stood up. "Oh," said Sally, "right." She didn't leave.   
Greg sighed. "I suppose he wouldn't mind if you were to come with me." Sally brightened.   
"Thanks, sir, it'll be nice to have a chance to apologise." Greg smiled. "Well, come on then."

 

Their cab pulled up outside a small cafe, with a bright awning, fresh red paint, and a French name Greg couldn't pronounce. They found Mycroft sitting just inside the entrance with a pot of tea already on the table, impeccably dressed as always, with his perfectly tailored suit and fancy umbrella that was bordering on over-the-top. "Detective Inspector Lestrade" he said, standing up to shake Greg's hand. "Mycroft, please, call me Greg." Mycroft inclined his head in acquiescence and looked at Sally. "And I'm afraid we haven't had the pleasure of meeting before." Sally stuck out her hand, "Sergeant Sally Donovan, pleased to meet you."   
"Mycroft Holmes, charmed. And what, may I ask, is your connection to my brother?"  
Sally suddenly looked flustered "Oh, well, erm, I'm afraid we haven't got the best relationship. We work together, and up until recently I, erm, haven't been treating him all that well, you see, and after some... recent developments, I've had a bit of a change of heart. I... I just came along because... well, I don't really know why I came along, but I'd like a chance to apologise and I'm a little bit, uh, worried. About him." To her embarrassment, Sally found herself stuttering in front of the imposing older Holmes brother. Mycroft looked surprised. "Well, how interesting, please have a seat." Somehow the way he said 'interesting' scared Sally a little.

 

"Now, Greg, I'm sure there is a very important reason for this meeting, you never call unless there is."  
"You're right, it's Sherlock. He's... well, he's back on the drugs Mycroft."  
Sally gasped. Mycroft put his teacup down and suddenly looked incredibly weary. "I've been dreading this. What is it this time, cocaine, ecstasy?"  
"I'm fairly sure it was heroin, from the way he was acting."  
"Wait a minute," Sally continued, "Drugs? He's on drugs? And he was working cases?"  
"I never let him on a case when he was high." Greg told her firmly. This did nothing to reassure Sally. "This has been an ongoing vice of Sherlock's, ever since his late teens." Mycroft explained, tapping his fingernails on the wooden table. He looked distracted, but Greg knew him well enough to know that he was focussing on the problem at hand. "I'm a bit worried about him being alone actually," said Greg, interrupting Mycroft's musings. "I didn't want to leave him, but he practically kicked me out."  
"Yes," Mycroft replied, "Sherlock can be stubborn. He was never one to willingly accept help. Nevertheless, thank you for calling me, Greg."  
"No problem. But... there was another reason I called, Mycroft."  
"Oh?"  
"There was an... incident at a crime scene about a month ago, and we ended up seeing a bit more of Sherlock than we're accustomed to."  
Mycroft frowned. "Go on."  
"Now, I know this is none of my business and you have every right to tell me to piss off, but I care about Sherlock, so I'm going to say it anyway." Mycroft gave Greg a look that clearly said 'get on with it'.  
"Well, there was no mistaking the scars, Mycroft. I'm guessing Sherlock was abused."  
Mycroft leaned back further in his chair and ran one hand through his thinning hair. Sally leaned forward in her seat, curiosity getting the better of her.  
"I have made many mistakes concerning Sherlock," Mycroft began quietly, "and I fear it may be too late to remedy them." Greg furrowed his brow. Mycroft continued. "Our father... was not a pleasant man. He was set in his ways, and a little too inclined to overindulge in alcohol. Perhaps that's where Sherlock gets his addictive personality." He gave a small, sad smile. "But I digress. Our father never treated Sherlock well. Right from when Sherlock was a toddler we all knew he was... different. Father never missed an opportunity to point this out. One of his favourite insults was 'Freak'". Sally had to put her cup down. Her hands were shaking too much.   
"My brother received constant verbal abuse all through his childhood. I was a fool to think it would remain verbal. I left for university at sixteen. Sherlock was only nine. Mummy had passed away the year before, and for the first time, he was living alone with our father. We were a wealthy family, and the entire house was naturally monitored by security cameras. I only watched the footage years later, when it was much too late. I've been trying to keep an eye on him since, but he doesn't trust me now. He doesn't trust anyone." Sally was crying now.   
"So the abuse started when he was just nine?" she choked out.  
"Yes," replied Mycroft. "It started small. Slaps to the face and back of the head, perhaps locking Sherlock in his bedroom for a few hours at a time. But in the months after I left, father grew more intoxicated and illogical, and the violence steadily escalated. Soon there were full on beatings, and being locked away or denied food for days at a time. Broken bones, countless concussions. Little to no human healthy human interaction. Just insults and injuries. I have no doubt that this was what lead to Sherlock's poor social skills and eating habits."   
Greg looked stricken, but he needed Mycroft to continue- some kind of morbid curiosity perhaps. He just needed to know. Then he could go home and cry about it later. "Didn't he go to school?"  
"School?" Mycroft gave a humourless chuckle. "Can you imagine Sherlock attending school? He tried it for about two years, but it inevitably didn't work out and a private tutor was hired. Of course, Sherlock soon surpassed him, and the tutor was kept on for appearances sake. I'm afraid he was paid off to turn a bit of a blind eye." Greg downed his tea in one and put the cup back down on the table. He leaned forward and knuckled his eyes. "I can't believe this... all this time I just thought he was an arse for no reason." Sally gave a small unladylike snort through her tears. Mycroft looked at his watch. "Oh dear, I'm afraid I must be going. Thank you for calling me, Greg, I'll be paying Sherlock a visit as soon as possible." Greg shook his hand. "And thank you for... "  
Mycroft nodded. "I trust you both to keep the matter discreet."   
"Of course, of course." promised Sally. She shook Mycroft's hand again. "Nice meeting you."   
She managed to hold in the sobs until she was in the cab on the way home.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat sideways in his armchair, curled up like a cat. He felt empty, and heavy, and angry at everything. There was a terrible sinking feeling in his chest and he felt dizzy and lightheaded. Already he was suffering from his indulgences last night. He told himself it was worth it. For a brief time, he left the world behind him, his limbs felt like air, he felt like he was floating on a cloud. But then harsh reality came back to smack him in the face and he was remembering why he had taken the drugs in the first place. So many memories he had tried to delete, and failed miserably. Why was it he could delete the entire solar system and not his father's horrible sadistic face? 

 

He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. A familiar memory rose unbidden from the depths of his mind like a monster advancing from the black abyss of the ocean. This was how it always happened. The memories snuck upon him, gradually becoming clearer and clearer until the terror forced him to do something else- play the violin for hours, the notes shrill and frantic, attempting to drive away his demons, his thin, calloused fingers throbbing- or immerse himself in his experiments, a nice explosion always did the trick. Or drugs. Usually when he felt like this he could ring up Lestrade, work on a few cold cases if there was nothing at the moment. But that had been ruined too, just like so much of his childhood. Because of his scars. Why did it always have to come back to that? He had promised himself years ago he would not let it define him. And yet it has. The words echoed around his mind, bouncing harshly inside his skull, 'no friends', 'waste of space', 'useless'. 'Freak'. But what always made Sherlock hate himself was the fact that he couldn't seem to disagree. He had no friends. No proper job, just a 'silly little hobby' as his father had always called it. He was different from other people. A freak. 

 

He hadn't had a sexual encounter in years because he was ashamed of his body. He'd only ever had two anyway. The first in his last year of secondary school. One glimpse at his back and the disgust was evident on the girl's face. She didn't speak to him afterwards, just got dressed and left. The second in university. This one didn't see the damage until after the deed had been done, when they lay spooning in bed. She had cried. Again with the pity. That was worse than the first time. Sherlock had decided to give up sex. His father had mostly ruined that for him anyway, never mind the scars. He wasn't sure even Mycroft knew about that aspect of the abuse.

 

Despite his best efforts, he found himself thinking back to one particular incident. He was eleven. He remembered how he lay in bed, listening to the noise fade as the last of his father's drunken friends left for the night. It was about two A.M. He turned over quietly, ready to pretend to be asleep, praying his father wouldn't bother him. But then came the heavy, plodding footsteps on the stairs, made unsteady and clumsy by excessive alcohol. Thump, thump, thump. It was a terrifying countdown for Sherlock. Then the door burst open, banging against the wall twice.   
"Well!" father rumbled "I suppose you're very happy with yourself." He was slurring, and swaying on the spot. Sherlock trembled in his bed, pretending to be asleep, praying he would just leave. "Are you listening to me, boy?" He was slurring his words. "That was a very important man you just insulted! Are you trying to ruin all of my business?" Sherlock rolled over to face his father.  
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-"  
"My arse!" roared father. "Of course you meant to, you little shit! You ruin everything, I would have been far better off had you never been born!" He leaned in close to Sherlock, his voice low and deadly. "You're just a waste of space, never going to amount to anything, I should have dumped you at an orphanage while I had the chance."   
He grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his pyjamas and shook him. "Stupid nancy-boy, just sit there all day with your books. Who wants a pansy for a son, eh boy?! Couldn't even make it in primary school. You're a failure, you hear me boy? A freak!" He was screaming in Sherlock's face now, spittle flying from his mouth. Sherlock tried to lean away from his rancid alcohol-breath. 

 

Father whipped the covers off Sherlock and yanked him by the leg. He went flying off the bed and thumped his head on the ground, sprawling out in a heap. Father gave a well aimed kick to the ribs, and Sherlock curled his small, skinny frame into a ball, trying in vain to protect himself from the blows. He whimpered softly, too used this treatment to even attempt begging. He knew it wouldn't work, he just had to let the storm pass and hope he was able to walk in the morning. "Oh no you don't! Stand up and take it like a man!" Father pulled Sherlock's arms from where they were cradling his aching ribs and hauled him up to his feet. Sherlock was shaking, and unconsciously backed up until he hit the bed frame with the backs of his legs. Father strode forward, and slapped Sherlock harshly across the face, one, two, three times, leaving bright red hand prints on his cheeks. "See? Coward! You're useless! Can't even defend yourself!" Sherlock flinched. Father reached back a fist and punched Sherlock square in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. The small boy tried to scramble away, but father caught his ankle and dragged him back across the floor until he was close enough to pull up by his brown curls. Sherlock yelped, and father let go of his hair, dropping him back to the ground. Sherlock landed awkwardly on his wrist, and a sharp crack echoed through the room. He howled. "Right, that's it!" Father undid his belt. Sherlock shrank back, tears now pouring down his face. When his father took off his belt that meant it was going to be one of two things. Either he would be beaten with the sharp buckled end of the leather strap, or something much, much worse.

 

Sherlock shook his head suddenly and stood up from his couch at 221B Baker street. Taking deep breaths, he reached for his violin and felt himself begin to calm as he stroked the strings with his fingertips, ran the horsehair bow over them, causing the instrument to vibrate wonderfully. He twisted the tuning pegs until he was satisfied, took a deep breath and put the bow to the string. There was a light knock at the door. Sherlock put the instrument down, grumbling to himself, and walked over to the door. He contemplated not answering it at all. Upon opening, he discovered the annoyance at his door was in fact, an umbrella toting, bespoke suited, irritating government official with a terrible weakness for cake.  
"Piss off, Mycroft!"


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft took advantage of the open door to slip in past a disgruntled Sherlock, who wasn't quite quick enough in slamming it. Sherlock turned to find Mycroft already settled in an armchair by the fireplace. "Back on the sauce, brother mine?"  
"I thought I told you to piss off." Sherlock sank into the seat opposite Mycroft and crossed his arms.  
Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, could you please stop being so childish for ten minutes? How many times must we do this? Am I finally going to have to admit you to a clinic?"  
Sherlock scowled. "For God's sake Mycroft, calm down, it was only once."  
"Yes Sherlock, but we both know that only once can soon lead to only twice, which quickly becomes now-and-again. Before you know it, you're addicted. Again."  
"None of your business anyway."  
"I beg to differ. As your brother, it is in my job description to prevent any endeavour which may cause you bodily harm."  
"Well I say you're fired. You never did do your job all that well. Better late than never I suppose, but no thanks anyway."  
"Your brotherly love never fails to astound me."  
"Likewise." The two brothers glared at each other for a moment. While their facial features were almost completely different, when scowling they mirrored almost identical expressions of distaste.  
Mycroft finally gave in and looked away first. "Sherlock please, just promise me you'll give this up, promise me this is the last time." Mycroft was embarrassed to have resorted to pleading, but there was really nothing else he could do at this stage, short of booking Sherlock into a rehab clinic, and they both knew how that would end up. Sherlock sighed and rubbed his face, all evidence of his fit of pique long gone, replaced with weariness. It was rare to see this defeat on Sherlock's face, and Mycroft took that as an indication of his seriousness. He had momentarily dropped the facade. "I told you Mycroft, it was just the once, it won't happen again. I was... erm... I was having a bad day."  
Mycroft studied Sherlock closely. He narrowed his eyes. "And how can I be sure there won't be a repeat of this incident the next time you have a... bad day?"  
"You can't. You'll have to trust me." Sherlock smirked. He said trust as if it was a rude word. And it may as well have been, considering how uncomfortable it seemed to make Mycroft.   
"Promise me Sherlock," Mycroft was loath to sound so childish, but he needed to say it, for his own peace of mind. "Promise me you won't do it again. Or at least if you're feeling like you may relapse you could... talk to me first." The last statement appeared to make Mycroft even more uncomfortable. Sherlock snorted. "Talk to you? I'm afraid, dear brother, that that may have the opposite effect. One conversation with you is enough to make me crave the sedatives."  
Mycroft glared expectantly at him. Sherlock sighed. "Fine, I promise. But we both know that by now you've probably paid off every drug dealer in London and had someone search my flat while I was asleep." Mycroft gave a little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. In Sherlock's opinion, it was rather creepy. Mycroft stood up gracefully, leaning on the ever-present umbrella. "Let's just say I have every eventuality covered." Sherlock strode over to the door and pulled it open, then stood at the side, holding one arm out towards the exit. "Don't let me keep you." He said pointedly.  
Mycroft took the hint. As he was passing Sherlock he gave him one last warning in the form of a coy "I'll be watching." Sherlock all but slammed the door after him.

 

Mycroft was making his way down the creaky staircase, umbrella taps mingling with the cracks of his polished shoes when his phone rang in his pocket. He looked at the caller I.D before answering. Greg Lestrade. Interesting. Mycroft had given the detective inspector his personal mobile number after their last meeting in case there was another incident involving Sherlock, but he hadn't expected him to call so soon. "Greg," he answered the phone "To what do I owe this pleasure?" That was Mycroft, endlessly polite.  
"Mycroft, listen, sorry to bother you again, but I just needed to know, where is your father now?"  
"Oh don't worry Greg, long taken care of. He's in prison. I had him detained after discovering Sherlock locked in a coat cupboard, bleeding from his head. The CCTV footage was fairly conclusive evidence in the trial."  
There was a pause on the other end.   
"Right, right. Thanks. I just... needed to know, you know?"  
"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me Greg, I am in a bit of a hurry...  
"Oh, yeah, course, sorry! Anyway, thanks mate."  
"Goodbye."  
"Bye, now."

**************************

Greg closed the phone and put it down on his desk. He didn't know why he had just rung Mycroft, but he had been filled with an overwhelming anger on behalf of Sherlock and needed to know just what had become of his abusive father. He found it very hard to convince himself that he wouldn't have paid him a visit had he still been a free man. Greg leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at the ceiling. Good old Mycroft, always organised. Greg imagined that video footage would be fairly hard to argue with. 

 

He sat up suddenly. Mycroft had used video evidence in the trial. Which meant that the evidence was most likely still here somewhere, in an evidence locker. Those things hadn't been cleared out in years. Greg stood up slowly. Dare he? He supposed he could just see if it was there, that didn't mean he was going to watch it. That would be a terrible breach of Sherlock's privacy. He found his legs taking him in the direction of the evidence lockers. The guilt seemed to be having a battle with his curiosity.

 

And that was how, two hours later, Greg found himself sitting in front of the battered old television set in the staff room after everyone else had gone home. That is, everyone except Donovan and Anderson, who were sitting either side of him looking nervous. They had found him searching through the evidence and insisted on helping, which Greg didn't mind, but then they followed him to the staff room. "We care too." they had said. Greg looked at each of them as he fiddled with the DVD player and couldn't help but think this may be good for them, to understand a bit more about Sherlock. But that didn't mean he was happy about it.  
"Now listen you two, this is just about the most unprofessional thing I have ever done, and if either of you ever breathe a word of it to anyone, that's my job gone, and probably yours as well, you understand?"  
They both nodded. "Course." Sally whispered. "And the same goes for Sherlock," Greg continued, "If I ever hear one of you has mentioned it to him..."   
"We won't". Anderson promised hastily.  
Greg nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Right." he said. 

 

He sat back down and pressed play. He had chosen one of the earliest clips. A grey picture buzzed into view. A living room, by the looks of it. A little boy sat in one corner, legs crossed, reading a book. He couldn't have been any older than nine. It was very clear even at that age that it was Sherlock, his features were unmistakable. Although skinny, the face was rounder than the present Sherlock, and the curly hair closer to ringlets than the messy flicks he sported nowadays. He was undoubtedly an extremely cute child. There was a large purple bruise on one of his cheekbones. Greg had to admit he was nervous. Of course he'd seen this sort of evidence before, in his line of work, but this was Sherlock. This was his friend. 

 

They could hear the rustling of paper as little Sherlock turned a page in his book. Greg told himself he shouldn't be surprised that there was sound to go along with the video. Only the best when it comes to Mycroft. The door to the living room opened suddenly and a man strode in. He was tall, and well muscled. Probably had been considered very handsome in his younger days. 'Still is', Greg admitted to himself. The man's eyes swept the room, coming to rest on the small boy in the corner. "Boy!" he commanded. Sherlock ignored him. "Boy!" Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him at all. Greg knew that he probably hadn't. He was well known for his propensity to get lost in his own head. The man charged toward Sherlock and grabbed him up by the shirt collar, practically lifting his small body off the ground. Sherlock dropped the book and gave a small yelp of surprise.  
"How dare you ignore me! Sitting there like a little know-it-all with your bloody books all the time. Stupid nancy-boy. Pansy. Why can't you go outside and play football like a real boy, eh?"   
It was clear that Sherlock's father was more than a little tipsy.   
He dropped Sherlock back on the ground like sack of rocks and suddenly looked upset. "Why do you do this to me? Why?" he whined. Greg thought he looked a bit deranged. "It's your fault, everything's your fault. Your mother was fine until she had you, then all of a sudden she's a mental case. Goes and kills herself. Your fault, you drove her to it, she couldn't stand having such a failure for a son." Sherlock was trembling now.  
"You made her sick" Mr. Holmes continued, "You make me sick." The last sentence was quiet and deadly, loaded with venom. "You were an accident. A mistake. A burden on this family. Why can't you be successful like Mycroft? You're worthless!"   
Sherlock suddenly scrambled to his feet. 'No!' Greg wanted to shout, 'Don't provoke him!' 

 

Sherlock looked his father in the eye, even though he was only half his height. "I'm... I'm not w-worthless." He stuttered, the trembling of his high, childish voice betraying the steel in his eyes.   
All three observers jumped as a resounding smack echoed throughout the room. Mr. Holmes had slapped Sherlock across the face, knocking him to the ground in the process. "DON'T TALK BACK TO ME!" he bellowed, looking even more deranged. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just meant-" Sherlock's panicked apologies were cut off by a swift kick to the ribs. Anderson, Donovan and Greg all winced at the sharp crack that bounced off the walls. Sherlock was now curled into a ball, gasping and clutching his damaged ribs. His father unbuckled his belt and ripped it off. "I'll teach you some manners boy!" he roared. He snapped the belt back, and whipped the buckle end down on Sherlock's shoulder. The little boy cried out. He whipped him with the sharp piece of metal again and again, growing more and more frenzied, until Sherlock's thin t-shirt was torn and shredded, and blood stained the pieces of fabric. Sherlock was openly sobbing now, and begging his father to stop. 

 

Eventually, he did. He dropped the belt on he floor, and stood panting as he observed the shivering huddle below him. He stooped down, and grabbed Sherlock by his curls, pulling his head back so he was forced to look at him. "You're a freak, boy," he hissed viciously, "and don't you forget that."   
And with that, Mr. Holmes stood up, dusted himself down, and walked from the room as though nothing had happened. Sherlock lay on the ground, still sobbing. "Mycroft." he whispered through the sobs, "Mycroft please help me."   
After a few moments, Sherlock seemed to pull himself together. He took a deep breath, and hissed, clutching his ribs. After dragging himself to his feet, he leaned on the wall for a moment, panting, before limping slowly from the room.  
The screen buzzed and went to static. No one did anything for a moment. Greg reached out carefully and pressed the eject button, hitting it first time despite his shaking hand. He stood up and faced Anderson and Donovan, not even caring if they saw the tears on his face. Anderson was shaking, and looked close to tears himself. He reached one arm over to Sally, who was hyperventilating. "Well," said Greg, his voice breaking, "Well..." he didn't quite know what to say after witnessing such a horrific thing. Suddenly Sally interrupted him by bursting into loud, noisy sobs, burying her face in her hands. 'I agree, Sally.' thought Greg. He felt like joining in.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock paced back and forth in Lestrade's stuffy office, muttering to himself and making gestures with his hands. Lestrade smirked. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep that up. Gonna tell me any theories yet?" Lestrade pretended to be exasperated with Sherlock but secretly he was ridiculously pleased with the fact that Sherlock had agreed to take this case. It had been almost six weeks since the last one. Sherlock was stubborn, but even he couldn't resist what looked to be a serial case of cannibalism. A killer that interesting was rare. "The neighbour would make sense if it weren't for the teeth, what happened to the teeth?!" Sherlock was getting animated now, his pacing picking up speed.  
"Oh, Sherlock, I forgot to mention, there was a letter we thought might be relevant-"  
"Well for God's sake, then give it to me! Honestly Lestrade, and you complain about me withholding evidence..."

 

Greg rifled through the papers on his messy desk and began to search through the drawers. "Hold on, I know it's here somewhere..."  
Sherlock strode over to the desk, with intentions to sweep everything to the floor that didn't look relevant. "Hurry up," he began to shove papers off the desk. "I haven't got all day, unlike you, I actually have-" Sherlock suddenly stopped talking and froze. Lestrade looked up and followed Sherlock's gaze to a cuboid shaped object sticking out from under a stack of paperwork. It was an old video. A scruffy sticker was stuck to the side, and on it, in very clear black pen, were the words 'Holmes case'. Shit. Oh shit.  
Sherlock reached out very slowly and delicately picked up the tape with his long, thin fingers. He stared at it for a moment that felt like eternity to Lestrade. 

 

Greg gave a violent jump as Sherlock suddenly whipped back his arm and pegged the video at the wall, where the flimsy plastic buckled and cracked. He then stood in the centre of the small room, head down, breathing heavily.  
Greg was horrified. "Sherlock you have to understand, I didn't-"  
"You had no right!" Sherlock roared, whirling on Lestrade. "That was none of your business!"  
"I'm sorry, I just-" Lestrade was interrupted by Sherlock turning and punching the wall. There was a small crumbling noise as he actually broke through the plaster. He withdrew his white fist with a puff of dust and stormed out of the room. Greg stared after him, his expression an amalgamation of shock, horror and utter guilt.

 

He slowly lowered himself to his chair, and leaned his elbows on the mess of papers. 'Idiot,' he scolded himself, 'you're such an idiot! Why didn't you put that stupid tape back?' Greg allowed himself a few moments of self deprecation, then shook himself out of his guilt-wallowing and ran out the door after Sherlock.

******************

Greg burst out through the front doors of New Scotland Yard and stood for a moment, panting. He looked around him. Sherlock was gone. Greg randomly chose left and wondered idly how the man managed to disappear so fast. He began to jog, and it wasn't five minutes before he found the man in question, sitting placidly on a park bench, as though he was waiting for a bus. The only thing that belied his earlier tantrum was the white powder settled over his hand and coat sleeve, ground into the cracks in his knuckles he had received from punching through a fairly substantial wall. Sherlock's face was a mask of indifference. Greg had seen this tactic before, retreating deep into the recesses of his mind, locking all of his emotions away. It was a coping technique, an ultimately destructive one. 

 

Greg sidled up to Sherlock and gently sat down on the bench, as though Sherlock was a wounded animal he was afraid to startle. They sat in silence for an indeterminable amount of time before Greg turned his head to look at Sherlock, whose hands were now shaking, fists clenched tightly, white knuckles made whiter by the plaster dust. Sherlock's face was pale, and his skin had an almost translucent look to it, as though he was ill. He looked like an apparition. A phantom, ghostly skin shrouded in his dramatic coat, a dark silhouette against the fog, which was interspersed with weak strains of milky sunlight, characteristic of early-morning London.   
Greg and Sherlock had been working all night, and Greg's eyelids felt heavy and drooping, the bright light of dawn making him squint, longing desperately for his bed. Sherlock, of course, looked wide awake, well accustomed to sleepless nights. Greg had often wondered about the consulting detective's ability to focus so intently for such long periods of time, to concentrate with such little rest. Now Greg knew why. If he had experienced what Sherlock had, he didn't think he'd be getting much sleep either. 

 

The silence was absolute, no cars about this early. Greg thought the atmosphere was ethereal, dreamlike. Especially after his long night. He wasn't entirely certain he was even awake right now.  
He jumped when Sherlock spoke.  
"You were the last person I would have expected to invade my privacy like that." It was practically a whisper. Sherlock was afraid his voice would break if he spoke any louder. God forbid he betray any hint of emotion. Greg couldn't seem to find a single thing to justify his actions, and decided he wouldn't disrespect Sherlock by making up excuses.  
"I know." He breathed softly, not wanting to pop their little bubble of silence, afraid the moment would be lost and Sherlock would say something haughty and flounce off, their friendship forever destroyed. "Sherlock, I had absolutely no right to watch that tape, and what I did was inexcusable. But... I did it because I care about you. Not that I'm trying in any way to justify what I did, it was a terrible breach of privacy, but I want you to know that I didn't do it to spite you. I did it because you're my friend, because I wanted to know what had happened to you, so I could help. You're so closed off sometimes, it's hard to communicate with you. I just wanted to understand you better. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock said nothing.  
Greg attempted to lighten the mood, "And you of all people can understand a bit of morbid curiosity."  
Sherlock didn't laugh.  
"Why can't any of you understand," he spoke softly and slowly, enunciating each word carefully, like he was trying to keep himself in control. "Why can't you get it through your thick skulls, that I want to forget about this. It happened a long time ago, long before I knew any of you. And you've known me a long time without any inclination to understand me better. Why am I suddenly so interesting? Because I'm a victim? Because the arrogant freak isn't so high and mighty after all? Is that was it was? Some kind of freak-show? Bet you invited half of Scotland yard in to watch me get what I deserved. I know most of them would pay to see me get a beating."  
"God, Sherlock, no, that couldn't be farther from the truth-"  
"A distraction." Sherlock interrupted. "The cases, they were a distraction, from my home life and from my childhood. And now you've mixed the two. My one distraction." Sherlock's voice cracked on the last word.   
Greg's voice trembled. "I just wanted to-"  
"No. I'm not yours to fix. I'm not anyone's."  
"I'm sorry."  
"Goodbye, Greg." Sherlock stood up from the bench and walked briskly down the street, hands in his coat pockets, footsteps tapping on the icy concrete, leaving an echo.

 

Greg sat alone on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, his breath misting in the cool morning air. It was only then that he realised that Sherlock had called him by his first name, for the first time ever. He stood up, shivering, and walked in the opposite direction Sherlock had, trying to convince himself that the moisture in his eyes was due to the icy wind.

.  
.  
.

To be continued.


End file.
